Adventures in Superwholock
by swlockian
Summary: Following the story of how the Winchester brothers met the Doctor, Sherlock, and John Watson. There's some mild Rose/Ten.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 –

**This occurs at the tail end of the Season 6 episode of Supernatural, "Weekend At Bobby's." I hope you like it. This chapter is basically just an introduction to Sam and Dean, which will be followed by an introduction to other key characters in this story. That'll be revealed as the story unfolds, but you can probably guess. If you have any ideas, criticisms, or anything, really, to contribute to this story, feel free to let me know. This is my first fanfiction ever, so, yeah. Hope you like it!**

Sam and Dean stood in a 17th century cemetery, surrounded by the highlands of Scotland. The grass was blowing, and the cellphone in Dean's hand crackled as they waited to hear what Crowley's decision would be. Bobby's soul for his own bones, safe and sound.

"I believe those are mine," said a voice, directly behind them.

The brothers turned to look at Crowley.

"You know what," said Dean, his voice full of bravado as he flicked his lighter threateningly, "Now that I think of it, maybe I'll just A-bomb your ass anyhow."

"Dean," Sam said, taking the lighter from his brother's hand. "He's a dick. But, a deal's a deal."

Sam fixed an uncaring look on Crowley.

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me, Moose," said Crowley, sharply, pushing past Sam. "Get bent!"

Sam and Dean watched as the demon collected his bones. Crowley's eagerness betrayed his uncaring charade. The brothers exchanged a knowing glance as the demon brushed the dirt from his remains.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Crowley said. The boys stared icily at the demon. "I have a little hell to raise."

Sam exhaled heavily as the demon disappeared into thin air.

"Well, Sam! Now what'll we do?"

Sam glanced at his brother. "What are you talking about? Now we go home. Get back to work."

Dean shrugged, looking around at the landscape. "I don't know, man. I think Europe's gotta have at least one or two ghosts… No need to leave folks hanging."

Sam's forehead wrinkled as he considered this idea. He could remember that going to Europe used to matter to him. Well, not him exactly. It mattered to the Sam that had a soul. He and Jess had always planned to go on a big trip after Stanford, but when that didn't happen, the whole idea had been forgotten.

Maybe it would be good to try and do something for normal-Sam. Show Dean that he cared, at least a little. He could see the doubt that occasionally sprung up in Dean's eyes, especially when they were on the job.

"Sounds great," he said, filling his voice with false enthusiasm. "Where to?"

_Sounds sincere_, Dean thought. _He sounds like Sammy_.

"I'm thinking London," Dean said. "Tons of creepy old houses there. Might be good to get back on track. A good, clean ghost hunt."

"Since when is hunting ghosts considered 'clean'?" Sam asked, a faint smile on his face. He was pretending, of course. It was for Dean's benefit.

Dean slapped Sam on the shoulder, barking a laugh. The brothers began walking towards their rented car. It was a four door, blue and just plain ugly. When they were picking it out, the only thought that passed through Dean's mind was, _modern cars suck._

"Great!" Dean said, tossing a map and brochure in his brother's lap. "Start planning!"

Dean watched as Sam's expression dropped. That was weird. Sam usually loved crap like this. Dean bit the inside of his cheek, turning the key in the ignition.

Sam gingerly turned the pages of the brochure, "Fastest way is flying. There's an airport not far from here."

Dean's eyebrows pulled together. "You wanna fly there?"

"Yeah," Sam said, without looking up. "No reason not to."

"Any other ideas?" Dean demanded.

"There's a train," Sam said, still flipping through the brochure. "But flying's better."

"We're taking the train," Dean told him.

"What?" he replied, finally turning his attention to Dean. "Why?"

Dean fixed him with a steady glare.

"Train," he said flatly.

Yeah, Dean thought. Something's definitely weird.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dean," Sam said mildly. "This place is a little Norman Bates. Even for us."

"Sam," Dean sighed. "We're on an adventure here."

Sam rolled his eyes, examining the interior of the crap rental car they got from a dealership on the outskirts of London. "If this is an adventure, why didn't we steal a car?"

Dean felt his stomach turn. There was a time when Sam would have fought tooth and nail to avoid stealing a car. The stick up his ass didn't allow for corrupt morals, back in the day. Dean had spent over a decade trying to hammer that out of his little brother, and now that it didn't matter to Sam, Dean felt almost sick.

"'Cause we're visitors in this country, and I don't want our vacation turning into a lesson in evading Interpol."

Sam groaned internally. He was almost disgusted by Dean's inability to see the convenience of petty theft. Well, maybe it wasn't exactly petty, but it was convenient. "Yeah, whatever."

The brothers checked into the motel, opting for the room furthest from the offices. The inside of their room was decked out with kitschy-cool furnishings. The two queen sized beds were covered with brightly patterned comforters, while each bedside table held a unique lamp. In the furthest corner of the medium sized room sat a tiny desk, on top of which sat motel stationary, and a wall lamp that was hung for convenience.

Sam dropped his duffle onto the bed furthest from the door, as he did whenever they moved into a new motel. Dean took his things to the other bed, and both began unpacking the things they needed to begin a hunt. Sam pulled his laptop out of the bag, along with notepads, pens, tacks and string. While Dean pulled out a small flask and the stack of newspapers they had picked up on their way through town.

Dean flopped onto his stomach on his bed, opening the newspapers and beginning to search for anything that seemed particularly strange. Meanwhile, Sam settled into position with his laptop on the small desk in the corner of the room, searching for local crime websites.

The boys slipped into familiar and comfortable silence as they began their research.

* * *

><p>John Watson sat at the table in apartment 221B Baker Street, his laptop on the counter in front of him. He was typing rapidly about the latest case solved by Sherlock Holmes. As he typed, he, for some reason, felt the need to refresh the hit counter repeatedly. For a long time, it stayed at the number 0. Which made enough sense, considering that in the last few moments he had refreshed in nearly half a dozen times. He almost felt like he was expecting something to happen.<p>

Sherlock ambled into the room, grudgingly beholding John sitting with his laptop, fingers pounding away. "John," he said, his boredom clear in his voice. "Take a moment from your little blog and pay attention to me."

John nodded his head, glancing shortly in Sherlock's direction, but attention returning to the hit counter.

"John!" Sherlock repeated.

"Yes, yes," John said, finally tearing his attention from the computer. "What is it?"

"I've found a new case."

"A new one already? The last was solved, what, four hours ago?"

"Five and a quarter hours, actually," Sherlock corrected. "And this case is different."

John nodded his head slowly. The cases were always different. Sherlock had a strange knack for selecting cases that hardly seemed like cases at all.

"Alright, where are we going?"

"I'm going out of London for the day, there's someone I need to meet. You stay here, finish writing your… blog. I'll text you details later."

John simply nodded, and Sherlock left the room without another word. John turned his attention back to the computer. When he finished detailing their last case, he decided to update the public on their recent development.

_Found new case. Outside London today, unclear on following plans. -JW_

As he hit the submit button, it felt like the message he sent was more direct than he had intended. It was almost as though he expected it to be received by somebody in particular. As the page refreshed, he almost expected the counter to change. It didn't.

How odd, John thought. He didn't quite know why he felt so certain that somebody important would visit the page today.

His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Checking the counter a final time, he donned his jacket and rushed from apartment 221B, leaving the laptop open on the table.

As the door to the flat banged shut, the hit counter changed.

_1 visitor_.

* * *

><p>Sherlock leaned against the hood of the dull car he had rented to go out of the city. Normally, Sherlock Holmes detested waiting. But on this occasion, he felt sick anticipation as he stared at the empty field ahead of him.<p>

Not once did his mind wander. When a couple wandered past him on the road, asking if he needed to borrow a phone, he simply shook his head, eyes not leaving the field. He didn't consider the couple, didn't dissect their relationship. He just watched the empty field.

Nearly three hours later, there was a change. The space around him began to quiver, and a gasping noise filled the air. The sound was almost indescribable, stranger than any noise Sherlock had ever heard.

A blue box appeared in the centre of the field. First dimly, then it became clear. "Police Telephone Box" the top proclaimed in large white letter.

The doors swung outwards, and out came a tall man in a long coat. He wore a pinstriped suit, a tie, and sneakers. His hair stuck up in every direction, and on his face he wore a grin. Behind him stood a pretty, blonde girl, wearing a purple shirt under a blue denim jumper.

"Sherlock!" the Doctor cried, excitedly. The doors to the TARDIS closed behind them, and the pair rushed towards the consulting detective without hesitation. "You came!"

"I've been waiting, Doctor," Sherlock commented testily. "But I've always wanted to see the TARDIS land, and now I have."

"Well, things get a little jumbled from time to time in the TARDIS," the blonde said. "Don't they?"

Sherlock nodded. He was too excited to stay irritated, and looked at the blue box with awe.

"It's been a long time," the Doctor said. Sherlock nodded his agreement, turning his attention to the blonde who was trying to steal glances at Sherlock without being noticed. She failed in that attempt.

Her interest in the Doctor was immediately obvious. She stood in such a way that even when her attention was elsewhere, the Doctor was there. It was as though he was molded into everything around her. It was, however, harder to discern the Doctor's feelings about the girl. He wondered if the time lord shared the girl's feelings.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said to the girl, extending his hand. "Consulting detective."

"Rose Tyler," the girl replied, taking the hand. "Er, shop keep, I suppose."

Sherlock smiled at Rose to ease her tension. He rarely cared about the emotional state of those around him, but he knew that the Doctor would appreciate politeness towards his companion. The last time they had met, the man had been alone. He had also worn a different face.

"So, Doctor. What is the case?" Sherlock asked, not allowing for any distraction from the subject.

The Doctor and Rose exchanged a glance, grinning to each other. The two had a rather unfortunate ability to make others, even Sherlock Holmes, feel as though there was a joke that nobody else could quite understand. It was a skill Sherlock had noticed that he and John shared, however rarely.

The excitement on the Doctor's face was obvious. "Oh, it's brilliant!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

A boy, small for his age, stood silently in the middle of a field. The wind whipped his dark hair across his face, but he was completely still. At his feet lay a dead bird. The boy stared at it without the fear another his age, hardly seven, would have, but rather with peculiar curiosity. How did it die?

Natural causes, he knew instantly. How absolutely obvious: its bones were at awkward angles, so likely it had fallen mid-flight. Disease, perhaps. It didn't appear to be very old.

In the distance, a larger boy was running towards him through the tall grass. His voice rang clearly in through the crisp fall air, but the dark haired boy ignored him.

"Sherlock!" the other boy panted, at last reaching him."What on earth are you doing out here? Mother has been calling."

Sherlock pointed at the bird, silently asking his brother to examine it with him.

"It's died," Mycroft said, bored.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking at his brother. "How did it die, Mycroft? Look at it. What do you see?"

"I see a dead bird, Sherlock. It's probably been killed by a cat," Mycroft huffed, impatient. "Now come along. If we hurry, perhaps we'll see the evening news."

Mycroft turned, leaving. Sherlock looked one last time at the bird, and then followed his brother away from the field feeling dejected. It was not unlike Mycroft to ignore his brother's fascination, and the reason was obvious. Yet, Sherlock could not ignore the feeling of loneliness that engulfed him whenever his brother disregarded his questions. There was nobody willing to listen, or to talk to him. He was a freak. He knew too much about people, and they didn't like it. It made deduction far less entertaining, having nobody to share it with.

The entire walk home, Mycroft babbled on about the affairs of parliament, and Sherlock did his best to ignore him. The older Holmes continued talking, but watched his brother with frustration. He, like Sherlock, often felt isolated from other people because of his intellect. These things set both brothers apart from average children (according to their mother). But unlike Sherlock, his talents were not particularly useful.

Sherlock's skills frightened people, Mycroft knew. Which was why his brother was often alone. But whenever Sherlock made an effort to soften his attitudes, he was generally accepted by others, if grudgingly. His brother seemed to choose isolation, whereas for Mycroft, it was thrust upon him.

Mycroft could not help but wonder what it was about himself that frightened people away.

* * *

><p>The blog was well written, and each story seemed more impossible than the last. Even in the eyes of a Winchester. Could one mane really learn so much in a single glance?<p>

"I'll tell you one thing. This guy'd make a grade-A hunter," Dean said after reading a couple of the stories.

"It bugs me," Sam said. "A guy like that would _have _to know that there's something up, right? How could he not?"

"Pretty tough to miss, I'll admit," Dean agreed with a shrug. He sat down at the edge of Sam's bed, wondering why his brother so interested. Sam poured over the blog, and Dean got himself a drink.

"We gotta check him out," Sam burst out suddenly. "We have to. Get your stuff."

"What?" Dean demanded. "He's just some smart-ass detective with a goofy hat. Who cares if he knows or not? And if he doesn't, then we sure as hell aren't barging in to ruin some poor bastard's life!"

Dean's voice was close to a growl. He didn't know why, but he was pissed. Wasn't Sam supposed to be the one who defended innocents? Protector of the people? Mr. Hero, be a lawyer, save the word, jump in Satan's goddamn cage to make things right? So what the fuck! The old Sam never wanted to tell anyone anything, and now he was jumping at the bit to shatter some guy's reality on the off-chance he knew something about something.

"Dean, we're just gonna see if he knows something," Sam said. "Maybe he can help us!"

"With what, Sam?" Dean shouted. "What do we need help with?"

"Dean."

"No."

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, pressing a large hand to his brow. Anger was coursing through him. Dean was too caught up in protecting people, couldn't get the job done. But despite his irritation, he was almost relieved. Sherlock Holmes would see straight through any façade he played at, any lie he told. It would make it that much harder to keep Dean in the dark.

He wasn't worth the hassle, Sam decided. He heaved a large sigh, opening his eyes.

"Fine. We won't go."

"What? Seriously?" Dean demanded.

"Yeah, whatever," Sam shrugged.

"Okay then?" Dean raised his eyebrows in confusion. Since when did Sam just give up like that?

"Yeah, okay." Sam said. "Let's go eat."

It was late, and the motel room was dark. Packaging of the brothers' ordered dinners lay discarded on the small table, burger wrappings mingling with balled up newspapers.

Sam was lying on his bed, studying his brother's sleeping figure.

There had been a time, in what seemed another life, where Sam would force himself to stay awake, and memorize every line and freckle on Dean's face. At first when they were young, and John would leave for weeks at a time, Sam would watch his brother. He knew that if he made any sound, Dean would leap into action, making sure he was okay. Then, years later, when Dean made the deal to go to Hell. Sam barely slept that year. Instead, he branded every inch of Dean's face into his memory, terrified of losing the brother who spent his entire life protecting him.

But now it was different. He didn't stare at his brother out of devotion, or fear to lose him. Now, the youngest Winchester watched the other's face to remember _before. _To remember when that face actually mattered. No amount of trying made a difference, though.

"_Why don't I care about you_?" Sam whispered.

Dean's breathing hitched, and he turned, facing away from Sam. Sam flopped onto his back, pretending to sleep. He didn't know that Dean was awake the entire time, and Dean didn't tell him.

* * *

><p>"Doctor," Rose asked. "What are we doing here?"<p>

The pair were in the middle of an empty field. The breeze was blowing the tall grass, and the Doctor stood, turning over a wooden box in his hands. They were on the outskirts of London, about 30 years in the past, by Rose's estimate.

"Just a quick stop," he said, not looking over at her. He strode quickly to a seemingly random place, and put down the box. On top was an envelope addressed to "S.H."

"Alright!" he said, turning to face Rose. Her blonde hair was blowing wildly in the wind. "Off we go!"

"That was it?" she laughed, skipping to meet him.

"That was it," he confirmed, taking her hand and leading the way back into the TARDIS. "Now the Winchesters," he said.

"Who're they?" Rose inquired.

"Oh, you'll see," he grinned.

The TARDIS landed in the nearly empty car park of a suspicious motel in central London. The only sign of visitors was the shiny rental sitting in front of one of the rooms. The Doctor glanced at Rose.

"You may as well wait here, won't be a minute," he told her.

"Alright," she called after him, the Doctor already having left the TARDIS.

The Doctor strode with purpose directly past the single car in the lot. He rapped quickly on the door, stepping back as it swung open, and a tired looking man opened the door.

"Yeah?" he said, quickly rubbing a hand over his wet and red eyes. "Who're you? What do you want?"

"I'm the Doctor," he announced, grinning widely.

"And?" the man said, shooting a glance behind the door. The Doctor assumed that his brother stood there with a weapon ready, just in case.

"I've got a job for you," the Doctor said, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket. "You've heard of the man called Sherlock Holmes, I assume?"

"Sure, yeah," the man said. "By the way, I'm Dean."

"Oh, I know. Tell Sam he may as well come out from behind the door," he added. "Anyways, take a look at that, and I'll see you boys soon."

"Wait, that's it?" Dean said, the Doctor already turning away.

"That's it!" he cried, running towards a blue box sitting in the parking lot, he swung the doors inward and disappeared inside it.

"What the fuck was that?" Dean muttered. "_Who_ the fuck was that!"

"I told you we should've gone to find that Holmes guy," Sam muttered, snatching the envelope from Dean. The front simply read _Winchester. _"Anyways, looks like that Doctor guy just handed us a case.

"Yeah, seems like," Dean mumbled, peeking out the motel window. The blue box was gone. "Crazy guy, though."

Sam shuffled through the papers in the envelope, skimming its contents. "Yeah," he said. "Crazy guy."

* * *

><p>John Watson stumbled out of his taxi cab at Picadilly Circus, glancing back down at his cell phone. The message said to wait on the steps of the memorial fountain, so that was what he did.<p>

He was standing awkwardly, looking about the crowd, when he noticed one tall man and his very tall companion walking towards him. The first had short brown hair, while tall one's hair was long. Both were notably built underneath their worn out t-shirts and jackets.

"John Watson?" the tall one asked, the pair had reached the steps.

"Yes," John replied, extending a hand. "Yes, that's me."

"I'm Sam Winchester," the tall one said. "This is my brother, Dean. We're with the FBI, consulting on a case with INTERPOL."

"Howdy," Dean said, nodding a greeting.

"Sherlock said to meet you here," John said. "This is about his case, then?"

"Yeah, I guess it is," Dean said. "How well do you know Sherlock Holmes?"

John looked inquisitively at the brothers, measuring their expressions. Dean seemed like he was trying to look threatening, which, John thought, he didn't have to work too hard at. But the other one, Sam. He looked like he was trying too hard to seem like he was concerned. John wondered why the brothers were pretending.

"Fairly well, I'd say," John said. "He's a colleague, I've lived with him over a year now. I'd say I know a fair bit about the man."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Just a colleague?"

"Yes, why?" he said shortly.

"No reason," Dean interjected, aiming an elbow at Sam's side. "What does Holmes do in his free time?"

"Things," John replied. "I can't really be sure, the man's a mystery to me. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," Sam asked. "It's for the case."

"Why don't you just ask Sherlock himself?"

"Better to get an outside perspective," said Dean.

John seemed to be wary of them, Sam noticed. He was picking up a lot of Holmes' tricks, then. Probably without even knowing it. He was seeing right through them.

"You said Sherlock told you to meet us here?" Sam asked.

"Yes, he texted me about an hour ago," John replied. "Why does it feel like I'm on trial?"

"Nobody's on trial here," Dean told him. "We're just figuring out a few things. Has Sherlock ever mentioned a man called the Doctor?"

"Not that I can recall," John said honestly.

"Are you sure about that?" Sam pressed.

"Pretty sure, I'd say," John replied testily. "And this is about the case Sherlock is working on today outside London?"

"Yeah, I think it is," said Dean. "Hey, do you know any good places to eat around here? I'm starving."

"Uh, sure," John said, thrown off by the change of subject. "Let's go, then, I suppose."


	4. Chapter 4

"The human mind reaches conclusions about other people within seconds. However, we should not be so quick to judge our peers," the eighth grade teacher said from the front of the class. "Mr Holmes, would you like to help me start off today's activity?"

"Yes, Ms Francis," he answered, quietly.

"Make your best assumption about… Joffrey," she ordered, gesturing to the large, unfriendly boy in the back of the class. "Walk us through the process, if you might."

Sherlock hesitated, glancing cautiously to the other boy. Joffrey was the class bully, he knew, not that Ms Francis would know that. He inhaled deeply, and turned to examine his classmate.

"His sweater is frayed at the ends, there are deep bags under his eyes. The skin beneath is nose is red, either from a runny nose or crying. It isn't cold season, and he shows no visible signs of congestion, so it is probably the latter. There is a faded bruise low on his chin, and a darker one lower on his collarbone. His pants are too short, ripped at the ends. The poor condition makes it obvious they aren't kept for sentimental value, so it's likely that his parents could not afford a new pair. Economic hardship means excess stress, and by extension often alcohol abuse, occasionally domestic violence which would explain the bruises."

The class gasped when Sherlock turned back to the front of the class, the teacher's face bright red. Students were torn between staring at Sherlock and waiting for Joffrey's reaction, Joffrey who had leapt to his feet half way through the speech.

"_That _is your assumption," Ms Francis spluttered.

"No," Sherlock replied. "That is my deduction. My assumption is that Joffrey picks on younger kids because he's afraid to fall into the same patterns as his father."

"What'd you say?" Joffrey yelled, his voice heavy with rage. "I ain't gonna end up like 'im!"

Sherlock turned to the other boy, his face calm. "I didn't say that you _would _fall into those patterns, I said you were afraid to. I have every hope that you will overcome, but frankly, the statistics are not in your favour."

"To the office, Mr Holmes!" the teacher finally intervened, her voice shrill. "Immediately!"

Sherlock quickly packed up his belongings, feeling pleased that Joffrey had confirmed all of his theories. He was getting better at this. He thought about that s he sat on the bench outside the principal's office, and then he started laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" said a smaller student, sitting with an icepack to his head. "Joffrey's going to come after you, now."

Sherlock had no time to think about this fact. He entered the principal's office with his stomach in knots.

* * *

><p>"So, John," Dean said. "You've only known Sherlock for a year?"<p>

The Winchesters and Dr. Watson were walking through Central London, searching for a place that sold American food. Although not usually picky, Dean was wary of the restaurants they passed. Too clean, he thought, or too dirty… Never a happy medium.

"Just over a year, yes," John replied. "I met him the day we became flatmates."

Sam raised an eyebrow, and then turned to look at a small diner across the street. "What about that place?" he asked. Dean agreed, and the three entered the establishment.

When their food came, John turned the questioning around. "Why are you here?" he asked. "If Sherlock told me to meet you, why don't you know about him?"

"We know about him," Sam answered, "We haven't met, but we know him."

"Sherlock sent you, the Doctor sent us. I don't know why, but there's something we gotta do." Dean added, "It's a blind date."

"Well, obviously," John said.

"What do you know about Sherlock's new case?" Dean asked, not looking up from the undersized burger in front of him.

"Nothing," John insisted. "I haven't got a clue what he's up to."

Sam studied John's face, deciding that the man was being honest. "Can you take us back to your apartment then? Maybe there's something there."

"Of course," John answered. He wasn't sure why, but he trusted the Winchester brothers. More so Dean than Sam, which was odd. For the younger brother, Sam seemed less caring. Like he was the strong one. It wasn't what you would expect from brothers like these.

When the group reached Baker Street, they found the street blocked by a blue box. There was a man leaning against it, his hair in disarray. A girl with blonde hair stood near him, laughing happily. They were waiting for something, John could tell.

"Here we go again," Dean grumbled.

"That's the Doctor?" John asked. "Not what I expected."

"What'd you expect?" Sam said. "An actual doctor? Yeah right."

John shot a look in Sam's direction, getting out of the taxi. Dean was already on the street, walking towards the Doctor. John followed, Sam on his heels. "We got the guy," Dean was saying, waving his hand towards John. "Now what?"

"Hello John," the Doctor said. "I'm the Doctor. This is Rose."

"Hello!" she said.

"You're probably very confused, but we haven't time to explain. We have to go," the Doctor said.

John's face crumpled into a look of confusion, and he stared at the Doctor. "Where are we going, exactly?" Sam and Dean looked to be in agreement with this question.

"We're going to help Sherlock, of course," the Doctor answered. "Now, come along. Allons-y!"

The Doctor and Rose both disappeared into the blue box, Sam following behind them. He was remarkably at ease considering the situation, John thought. By comparison, Dean was blown away. "What the hell is allons-y?" he whispered to John.

The reply came from within the TARDIS. "It's French for let's go. Now let's go!"

Dean and John entered the TARDIS, and froze in disbelief. The interior of the police box was enormous. The room was more spacious than anything Dean had ever seen. His younger brother's face expressed a similar sentiment, and the pair exchanged a look.

"Bigger on the inside?" Dean stuttered.

Rose laughed at the looks on their faces. The complete look of terror on the face of newcomers never ceased to amuse her, and she wondered if she wore a similar face the first time she entered the TARDIS. "Yeah, bigger on the inside," she answered.

The Doctor was fiddling with the switches on the console, looking excited. Sam stood next to him, looking at the knobs and gears on the device. He didn't seem particularly impressed by it all, Rose noticed, which was odd. In fact, he looked almost put out by the fact that he didn't already know about these things. What was his problem, she wondered.

Then there was John, searching the TARDIS with his eyes, as though he was trying to remember every detail, to discover every secret hidden in the massive room.

And Dean, of course, whose face was simply shock. None of the men seemed afraid, which didn't surprise her. The Doctor had told her about them. The Winchesters, who hunted things more horrifying than she could imagine, and John, who was braver than anybody he'd ever heard of.

"You said we were going to help Sherlock?" John asked, interrupting Rose's thoughts. He had wandered towards the console, and was standing a little ways from the Doctor. Dean followed, more determinedly than the other two had.

"Yes, he's in a bit of a fix at the moment," the Doctor answered, spinning a handle on the TARDIS.

"Is he in danger?" John demanded.

"Not today," the Doctor replied. "But he was, or is, I suppose, depending on how you look at it. Time travel is funny business."

"Time travel!" Dean exclaimed. "What the hell!"

Rose watched Dean's face as he stared at the Doctor, who was explaining the TARDIS and time travel to the Winchesters, and Watson. Dean was astonishingly handsome, she noted. It was as though he had just fallen out of a magazine and into the TARDIS. His brother, too, was beautiful. Both looked strong and capable, and were obviously good people, considering what they did with their lives.

Dean noticed the girl staring at him, and looked back at her. Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly looked elsewhere, avoiding his gaze.

"So, we're going to help Sherlock in a different time?" John asked.

"Specifically, Sherlock when he is twelve years old," said the Doctor. "Mycroft, too."

"Wouldn't that be crossing his own time stream, though?" Rose asked.

"Well, yes," he responded. "This is an exception."

Rose rolled her eyes, an action which did not escape Dean's notice.

"Okay," Sam said, at last. "What do we need to do?"

* * *

><p>By the end of the day, the entire school had heard about the events of homeroom. They also knew that Joffrey had it out for the twelve year old Sherlock.<p>

So it was that at the end of the day, Sherlock found the path in front of the school blocked by five boys, all of whom were a great deal taller and considerably wider than him. Joffrey's older brother, Cleaver, stood in the middle, obviously their leader. Cleaver was nineteen, and at least six feet tall. The other boys were a combination of twelve and nineteen year olds.

"Hey, freak," Cleaver said, cruelly.

Sherlock took a step back, but a circle had formed around him, and one of the boys shoved him forward. Sherlock choked back his fear, but knew it showed on his face.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" Joffrey added. "Maybe we need to knock some of those brains out of your ugly head."

Joffrey pushed Sherlock to the ground, and aimed a well placed kick to his stomach. Another boy yanked him to his feet by the collar of his shirt, and Cleaver fist slammed into his jaw. Blood pooled in his mouth, unwanted tears stinging his eyes and slipping down his cheek. With each punch, Cleaver seemed to grow more excited, until Sherlock dropped to his hands and knees. His vision was blurred, and the faces of the boys were unclear. One of them kicked him in the ribs, and he fell on his side.

"Get up, freak!"

"Come on, loser, on your feet!"

"Freak! Freak!"

Sherlock struggled to regain his footing, but each time, a hand would shove him back down. All he could feel was agony in his side, and he was certain he had broken a rib. Joffrey launched his foot into his jaw, and Sherlock shouted from the pain of it. He spat blood to the concrete, gasping for breath. The boys laughed.

"Sherlock!" he heard, in the distance. Was he losing consciousness, he wondered? The boys seemed so far away. But then the call was closer, and much louder. "Get away from my brother!"

One of the boys standing over him was thrown sideways, a body having slammed into his back. Suddenly Mycroft was standing between the youngest Holmes and Cleaver Markham. "Get away from my brother," he repeated, pulling Sherlock to his feet. "Run," he whispered, helping Sherlock regain his balance.

"I can't," Sherlock groaned, clutching his brother's arm. Mycroft didn't look down to his brother, afraid that he would lose his momentum. He pulled Sherlock by the hand, trying to walk by the bullies. They closed ranks around the brothers, Cleaver staring straight into Mycroft's face.

The pair were nearly matched, Mycroft only a year younger than Cleaver, and standing just an inch shorter than the other boy. Despite the difference in strength and numbers, Mycroft stared at the other with determination. "Let us pass, Markham," Mycroft demanded, his voice full of authority.

When the boys made no move, he steeled himself and pushed past them, pulling Sherlock along with him. He supposed that the bullies were too astonished by his courage to react immediately. Once they were clear of them, Mycroft pushed Sherlock ahead. "Now run!"

Sherlock burst into a sprint, and Mycroft ran behind him. They could hear the group of bullies coming hot on their heels. "Run, Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled, speeding up. He was a little ahead of his brother now, but could hear him panting nearby. "Come on!" They were running very quickly now, and soon the sound of footsteps faded. Mycroft turned, relieved, to look at his brother.

Sherlock was not behind him.

Mycroft's heart leapt to his throat, and he ran back the way he'd come, far faster than he thought possible. I am so stupid, Mycroft thought. Why did I get ahead of him?

There was no sign of Sherlock or the bullies on the roads they had come by, and Mycroft was becoming overwhelmed with panic. "SHERLOCK!" he screamed, gripping his hair with his hands.

There was no answer, and with tears in his eyes, Mycroft continued to search.

Sherlock was running as fast as he could, but he lost sight of Mycroft. The pain in his side was too great, and he knew he would not be able to outrun the boys chasing him. Desperate for a hiding place, Sherlock turned sharply into an alleyway, and instantly regretted his decision.

The end of the alley was blocked by a brick wall, and when he turned to exit the alley he found his path blocked once more by Cleaver and his gang. Sherlock backed against the wall. There were no clever words that would get him out of this, he thought. And if there were, they were nowhere in sight as the boys came closer.

"Where'd your big brother go, Holmes?" Joffrey mocked.

"Joffrey, I –" Sherlock mumbled, desperate to hold them off for at least a moment.

"Shut up, kid," Cleaver hissed, towering over Sherlock.

"Hey!" a voice came from behind them. The bullies broke apart, turning to face the intruder. A blonde girl stood in the entrance to the alleyway, staring bravely into the faces of the boys in front of her. She appeared to be the same age as Cleaver and his friends. "Let him go," she commanded.

"Who're you, sweetheart?" Cleaver murmured, approaching the girl.

Instead of backing away as Cleaver had hoped she would, she took a step towards him. "Rose," she answered coldly. "Now, let him go."

"Don't think I will," Cleaver laughed, glancing back at Sherlock, who was shaking and pressed hard against the wall with fear. His small frame seemed even tinier. Rose narrowed her eyes at Cleaver, who seemed to find the whole situation amusing. "He deserves it."

"Think you're tough, do ya?" Rose said. "Picking on a little kid? Outnumbering him five to one? Yeah, you're real heroes. Now let him go."

"You heard her," a deep voice said from behind. Two tall men appeared, one standing on either side of Rose. They were enormous, and terrifying to the bullies. "Let the kid go."

Cleaver stood his ground, staring at the Winchester brothers obnoxiously. "Nah, I won't."

Sam took a step towards him, towering over him. His face was like ice, and he stared down at Cleaver with malice. "Now."

"Let's go," Joffrey whispered from behind, horrified. "Come on, Cleaver."

"Yeah, Cleaver," Rose mocked. "Better get going."

Cleaver seemed to agree, and the bullies ran past the Winchester and Rose, out of the alley and down the street until they were out of sight. Sherlock had slumped to the floor, shaking violently. Rose ran to him, crouching down. She held him against her, whispering comfortingly to him.

Dean stood over her, looking down at Sherlock Holmes. The kid's face was covered in blood, and his entire body was beaten. Dean was overcome with a desire to chase after those kids and beat the tar out of them himself. Sam, noticing this, placed a large hand on his brother's shoulder, shaking his head.

Rose glanced up at the Winchesters, her eyes filled with tears. "We need to get him to the TARDIS," she said. Dean lifted Sherlock easily, and the young Holmes lost consciousness quickly. Sam led the way, back to the Doctor and the TARDIS.

"I guess the Doctor isn't a medical doctor, is he?" Sam asked.

"No, he's not," Rose answered, unhappily. She glanced worriedly at Sherlock every few moments.

"Watson's a doctor," Dean replied amiably.

That seemed to cheer her up, and when they reached the TARDIS, she seemed to be in slightly better spirits. She led Dean down a long hallway, and held open a door to a small bedroom. "Set him on the bed," she told him.

Dean did as commanded, laying Sherlock on the bed carefully. Rose stood beside the Winchester, and both looked down at him. "Poor kid," said Rose.

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Come on; let's find the Doctor and John."

* * *

><p>Mycroft was sitting on the curb, holding his head in his hands. He had no idea where Sherlock could have gone, where Cleaver had gone, or what to do next. So he just sat there, hoping that Sherlock would find his way to him.<p>

He was still sitting there when a man in an over coat appeared, and stood before him. Mycroft glanced up at the strange man, and slid a bit further away from him. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"It is not of import," he replied. "Your brother is safe."

"What!" Mycroft exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Where is he?"

"With friends," he told him. "You can't see him now."

"Why not?"

"You have another job. This," Castiel said, handing Mycroft a sealed envelope, "Is from the Doctor."

Mycroft gripped the envelope in his hands, distrustful of the man before him. "Who are you?" he asked again.

"My name is Castiel. Your brother is a very special person, Mr. Holmes. He has a large destiny, and you are perhaps the biggest part of his future."

"What are you talking about?" Mycroft demanded.

"In order for your brother to achieve his destiny, you are going to have to play a role. If you fail to do this, your brother will surely fail, and will perish."

"Sherlock will die?" Mycroft stammered, turning the envelope over, examining it. When he glanced back towards the man, he had disappeared. "Hello!" he called. There was no answer.

The streets had grown dark, and Mycroft felt sick with worry for his brother. After a few moments, he went home, feeling more alone than he ever had before.


	5. Chapter 5 (Rewrite)

Chapter 5 (Rewrite)

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was alone in what appeared to be a girl's bedroom. He was lying on a twin sized bed, still wearing his school uniform. On the bedside table sat two unfinished cups of tea and a framed photograph of two blondes, one he recognized as his saviour from the alleyway, and the other looked like she could be the girl's mother. He glanced around the room, noticing that aside from the picture, there were few personal touches in what seemed like an otherwise normal bedroom. It was tidy, aside from a few articles of clothing sticking out from the dresser drawers, and a disorganized pile of toiletries and makeup sitting in front of the mirror.

The sharp pain from his side had given way to a dull ache, and as he pushed himself into a sitting position he noticed the bandage wrapped tightly around his abdomen. He must have passed out in the alley after the bullies left, he thought, and the girl, Rose, and her friends must have brought him here. But where was here?

Sherlock slipped his feet back into his school shoes, which were waiting for him on the floor next to the bed, along with his backpack, and tip-toed to the door to look out. It wasn't locked, and there was nobody in the hallway outside, so he must be free to leave. He walked down the corridor, unsure which direction would lead him out of this place, and quickly became lost.

He began turning down corridors at random, hoping that one would reveal an exit, or perhaps a grand foyer where Mycroft and his mother were waiting for updates on his health. That, he knew, was certainly not going to be the case as the hallway he was hurrying along turned to a dead end, with a single door standing before him. Check this room, he told himself, and then I can find my way back to that bedroom and wait for somebody to come back.

Sherlock knocked timidly on the door, and when there was no response he pushed it open. Within, there was what seemed to be a normal sitting room. The furnishing was old, probably antiques, but in good condition. It was like stepping back in time to the Victorian era. Running a hand along the wood carvings on the back of an armchair, he admired the quality of the work. It reminded him of his grandparents' house, where he spent his summers with his brother and his dog, Redbeard.

He was turning to leave, wondering how he would find his way back now that he had wandered so far, when a voice spoke from the far corner of the room, "Are you leaving already?"

Stopping on the spot, he looked back across the room and saw a woman sitting on an ornate sofa, smiling at him. She was beautiful, probably the prettiest woman Sherlock had ever seen, with long black hair framing her dark face. She watched him coolly, as Sherlock stumbled closer. "I didn't notice you all the way over there," he said.

"Sadly, few people ever seem to notice me over here," she replied sadly. "I am happy you stumbled across this room, though, my friend. What is your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered. "Who are you?"

"An old friend of the Doctor's," she told him.

"There's a Doctor here?" said Sherlock. "He lives here?"

"Oh, yes," she answered. "There are many people and things who live within these walls. Some, like me, are hidden in distant corners in the hope that none but the Doctor come across them. You, I don't doubt, are some exception. None but you and he have found me here."

"Who is he?" Sherlock asked quietly. "Who is this Doctor? A bad man?"

"He believes he is good, like so many others. But he has done terrible things in so-called name of justice, as have others like him throughout history."

"You're his prisoner," he said, suddenly understanding the circumstances.

"In a way, yes," she replied, gesturing to a circle painted on the floor around her. There were unusual symbols, like nothing he had ever seen. "I was brought here a long time ago, and the Doctor was kind to me. Since then, I have been kept in this room and used to get information."

"He tortures you?" Sherlock demanded.

The woman did not respond, she merely smiled serenely at his incensed expression. She waved for him to sit beside her on the sofa, and he did so quickly. "I can help you," Sherlock said quietly.

"Thank you," she said, her voice full of feeling. She smoothed his curly hair with her hand, smiling down at him. Her light eyes were sad, "But there is nothing to be done."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you must go back to the Doctor and his companions. They are your friends. It is enough that you have come to visit me. Tell no one that you were here." She reached into her pocket, pulling out two candies. She held out her hand to him, then put one in her mouth. "I do not have much to offer you, but take this," she said. "As a thank you."

Sherlock took the second candy, and thanked her as he unwrapped it and put it in his mouth. He stuffed the paper in his pocket, rising to his feet. "Can I come back to see you again?"

The woman gave him an appraising look, and then the cool smile returned to her face. "I think," she answered softly, "that will be quite unnecessary."

Sherlock closed the door behind him as he left, and wound his way slowly back to the room where he had awoken. He tucked the candy wrapper under the pillow as a reminder, and then left the room in the opposite direction of the lady. He could hear voices down the hall, and soon found himself in a large console room. He joined the group of people standing around the contraption on the middle, and was distracted from his thoughts by the strange after taste now spreading through his mouth.

* * *

><p>Rose was standing at the console with the Winchesters on either side of her as they told her and the Doctor story upon story of their adventures on Earth. She was growing fond of the brothers, both of whom so dedicated to their jobs. She was amazed at how much they seemed to sacrifice for each other, and the world, time and time again. Particularly Sam, who jumped in Satan's pit to stop the apocalypse and save his brother. When telling that story, Dean left out his unease about Sam's return to the living.<p>

After some time, the Doctor began telling the stories. He talked about the Time War, and then the Slitheen on Downey Street and Harriet Jones. The Winchesters made an excellent audience, particularly Dean, who seemed to be in awe of the Time Lord. After a while, she got lost in the conversation, her attention shifting to concern for Sherlock. Sam watched her fret, and after a while, decided to speak. "Why do you care so much?" he asked quietly, careful not to interrupt the Doctor. He looked at the girl with real curiosity.

"He's just a kid," she replied plainly. "How could I not care?"

Sam seemed genuinely surprised by her answer, and began to re-evaluate his own perspective. Dean tried to ignore the distance in Sam's voice as he whispered, "Oh," but he felt numb as he continued listening to the Doctor's story. Sam was watching Rose, who was giving all of her attention to the Doctor.

After a time, a small figure entered the console room. Sherlock silently joined the group, standing beside Sam at the console. He didn't seem very surprised at the futuristic setting around him – he barely seemed to acknowledge the TARDIS. They greeted him warmly before returning to their conversation. It seemed to him that Rose and the Doctor were telling stories of far off places. "Yes," the Doctor was saying. "That one was particularly tough, wasn't it Rose!"

"Oh yeah!" she agreed. "Everyone was so sure that the Doctor was dead or dying, but I knew, I knew all along that he would come back. If I could just hold out long enough. So, that's what I did!"

"Always wait five and a half hours, right?" the Doctor laughed, his eyes positively shining. It was clear to Sherlock, even at his young age, that the Doctor adored the girl standing next to him.

"Right!" Rose confirmed, a reflection of every emotion playing on her companion's face. "So," she continued. "There I was on this spaceship, billions of light years from home, far from the Doctor, staring into the face of this THING, hurtling towards a black hole, and I knew just what to do –"

"Oh, you'll love this bit," the Doctor interrupted.

"I took the nail gun sitting on the floor beside me and shot it at the windshield –"

"In outer space?!" exclaimed Dean.

"In outer space!" the Doctor confirmed, now laughing outright.

"– And out he flies, into the black hole, off to who knows where. Black markings and all!"

"No fucking way," Dean whispered in awe. Rose and the Doctor both shot him a disapproving look – language – but Sherlock hardly noticed the curse. He, like the Winchesters, was amazed.

"You're a lot tougher than you look!" Sam laughed, clapping Rose on the back. He smiled carefully and winked, watching her reaction to be sure she didn't take offense. She wrinkled her nose and smiled warmly in response.

"Wait, wait!" cried Sherlock. "Then what happened?"

Rose glanced towards the Doctor. "Then, I thought I was done for, all of us, but _this_one," she said, nudging his arm playfully, "Starts towing the whole stupid spaceship with the TARDIS and before we even realize what's happening, the he is, on the intercom saying he's got Ida and "_do you fancy a swap?_""

The pair laughed now at the memory. The whole event seemed a long time ago, but the Doctor still remembered the relief he felt when Rose returned to the TARDIS that night, running into his arms. If he could, he'd have kept her there forever, never putting her in danger again. Of course, he thought, that's not possible.

Sam and Dean's expressions had grown very serious. Could it really have been the devil? Lucifer himself? It didn't sound like the same guy, but who could say? Maybe Hell was part of this universe, and not another dimension entirely, like they'd always thought. But then what would that mean? That all things supernatural were really just aliens? That didn't sit right with Dean, that was damn sure. In fact, it was giving him a headache.

"What do you think that thing was, Doctor?" Sam finally asked. "Do you think it was really Lucifer?"

"No," Dean interrupted, before the Doctor could respond. "Couldn't have been. Lucifer's been in the pit."

"Dean, what if that _was _the pit though? Seriously, think about it man." Sam replied.

"It wasn't him, Sam!" he shouted, putting an end to the conversation. Everyone shifted uncomfortably, not daring to break the silence that followed the outburst. Rose bumped lightly into the sides of both brothers, trying to keep them from a confrontation.

"I think there are a lot of things in the universe that we may never know for certain," the Doctor said. "It might have been your devil, but most likely not. There are loads of worlds out there, even more religions. That devil might've belonged to any one of them."

"Probably," Dean agreed.

"More than one devil?" Rose asked, looking at Dean. "How can that be?"

"Sam and I've seen it before," Dean shrugged. "Pagan gods, Woods gods, Hindu gods, angels, demons. There are loads of things on earth that just exist 'cause somebody else believed in 'em. Makes sense that the same rules would apply to other planets."

"I guess," Sam reluctantly agreed. "Whatever that freak was, he's probably the nightmare of some other planet – some poor bastard from the future."

Sherlock listened vaguely to their exchange, the foul after taste of the candy now more than an irritation. His mouth was numb, and the strange sensation was spreading quickly throughout his body. As the numbing reached his arms and legs, he began to sway a bit on his feet, nearly falling over. He caught himself on Sam's enormous arm and righted himself, hoping nobody would notice.

"You okay, kid?" Dean asked, jabbing an elbow in Sam's side.

"Oh, yeah, you good?" Sam quickly added, the look of irritation replaced quickly by a carefully constructed mask of concern.

"Yes, I'm alright," Sherlock murmured. He felt like he was suffocating, though, as if his head was wrapped in a thick, black veil. "Well, actually –" he started. With a lurch, he stumbled sideways, barely grabbing onto the console to stop himself hitting the TARDIS floor. He dropped to his hands and knees, gasping for breath and clawing at the invisible fabric that was blocking his airways.

"Doctor! What's happening?" Rose cried. The Doctor was already a blur of motion. Before either Winchester had time to react in full, he was scanning the now heaving Sherlock with his sonic screwdriver. The buzz of the screwdriver grew louder, and as the Doctor knelt beside him, Sherlock's body reacted to the siege violently, arms and legs kicking outward.

"Oh, no you don't," the Doctor said, and the Winchester's moved to hold down Sherlock's fighting limbs as the Doctor worked over him.

"What the hell is happening to him?!" Dean yelled, his face bright red.

The Doctor did not respond as he focused the screwdriver over Sherlock's face, more desperate as the boy faded to unconsciousness. The gasping stopped, replaced by silence, and the Doctor redoubled his efforts with the screwdriver. "Come on," he chanted. "Come on, come on, come on."

The Doctor stopped suddenly, his face triumphant. As the others watched in bewilderment, Sherlock's breathing returned at a slow, even pace. "I managed to block whatever was trying to take hold of him, at least temporarily," the Doctor explained. "This isn't finished, but I think that'll do the trick for now. He needs rest. We'll put him in a guest room."

He waved towards Sam, who unceremoniously scooped the body into his arms. He was holding him rigidly, jarringly aware of the Doctor's unflinching gaze. Sam followed Rose from the console room and down the hallway, to a room a little ways away from where Sherlock had been laid in earlier. He put him down on the large bed, and retreated to the doorway, waiting for Rose.

Her expression held deep concern for the child. She placed a hand on Sherlock's forehead, making sure he wasn't running a fever. When she was satisfied, she turned to look at Sam. Again, she was struck by how massive he was. She had always thought that the Doctor was tall, but he was nothing compared to the Winchesters. And Sam, now he was just something else. Scary, almost.

Sam cleared his throat, interrupting Rose's reverie. She realized suddenly that she had been staring at him. "Sorry!" she murmured, looking to her feet, embarrassed.

"No worries," Sam replied smoothly. He looked her up and down appreciatively as she rose to her feet and went to the door. His lifted his arm and blocked the exit as she approached, to which she responded by crossing her arms over her chest and staring him in the face.

"What?" she demanded.

Sam clasped a hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his hand burning through her sleeve. She felt her entire body go rigid at his touch, suddenly aware of the potential threat of the enormous being standing before her. He bent his head, until his mouth was inches from her ear. "Are… you and the Doctor… you know…?" he whispered, his breath hot on her skin. She felt goosebumps rise all over her body, a nervous feeling erupting in the pit of her stomach.

"I, no, he, no, we're not…" she stammered, "Not like that."

His fingers brushed her arm, and as he leaned in closer she realized what he wanted.

"No, Sam!" she exclaimed, pushing hard against his chest.

Sam chuckled quietly, his breath warm in her ear. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her body. His arms were heavy, and Rose found it hard to resist their strength. She turned her head away from him. "Sam!" she repeated.

He brushed his lips against her neck, taking no notice of her protests.

"SAM!" she shouted, trying to squirm out of his embrace. "SAM, LET GO OF ME!"

Sam released her suddenly, jumping away as if he'd been burned. "Oh, God!" he said. "Oh, no. Rose, I'm sorry. I am so, sorry!" He was biting his lip, his expression apologetic. He almost seemed sincere, gripping his long hair with his hands. "Shit, Rose! I'm really, sorry."

Rose wasn't buying it, but she decided it would be better that he didn't know that. "It's okay," she said cautiously. She left the room, hurrying back to the console room. Sam followed her with a smirk on his face, leaving the door to Sherlock's bedroom wide open.

* * *

><p>Rose's eyes were heavy with sleep, but she knew she had to stay awake just a while longer. It was late, and she hoped that if she could just outlast John and the Winchesters, then she would have some time alone with the Doctor without drawing attention to herself. She was practically asleep standing up when Dean finally spoke up. "So," he said. "You got any beds in this place?"<p>

"Oh, yes!" the Doctor replied. He directed the men to the same hall Sherlock was in, and told them to pick any room they'd like. All of the rooms in the hallway were for guests. Rose's bedroom was in a different hallway, of course. He had planned that intentionally, of course – always making sure that his companions were closer to him than strangers.

When Sam and Dean finally left to find their rooms, Rose felt ready to collapse. The Doctor wrapped her in a tight hug, looking down at her with concern. "Bedtime?" he laughed.

Rose agreed, nodding emphatically against his chest. He supported her against him as he led the way to her room, depositing her in bed. She fell onto the bed heavily, face pressing against the comfortable pillow. The Doctor brushed her hair back and turned to leave.

"Wait!" she cried, sitting up quickly. "Come back!"

The Doctor settled himself at the edge of the bed. Her face was very serious, and suddenly he was very concerned. "What's the matter?"

"Sam tried to kiss me," she answered quietly. The Doctor was surprised, but didn't understand why that would merit such serious discussion. "Oh, did he now?" he said, teasing.

Rose rolled her eyes at him. "I don't mean a nice kiss, he sort of forced himself on me," she continued. "He wouldn't let me go at first, but then he did. He said sorry and everything, kind of like he didn't realize what he was doing, but I don't know. I didn't really believe he was sorry."

The Doctor was sitting straight up now. His brow was furrowed and he was staring at Rose with concern. How did he misjudge the youngest Winchester so greatly? Every story he'd ever heard about them casted Sam as the most considerate and respectful brother. By no means was he a womanizer, at least not according to any of the people who'd ever met the boy, and certainly not one to try to force himself on somebody.

He was angry, and worried, but Rose seemed relieved to have told him at last. He wrapped her in another big hug, assuring her that nothing like that would happen again. She pressed her face into his shoulder, hugging him tightly in return. He promised that he would take care of everything, and told her to sleep. He kissed her on the top of the head before retreating from the room.

She was nearly asleep by the time he reached the hallway, and as she drifted off she thought she heard the hum of the sonic screwdriver on the other side of the door.

When Sherlock woke, the only sound was his own beating heart. The room around him was dark and unfamiliar, and although the bed was comfortable, he found his entire body aching. The rotten flavour that had filled his mouth remained on his breath, and made his stomach churn. What had happened?

The candy, he realized at once. It must have been expired, or perhaps he was very allergic. He wondered why the Doctor wasn't waiting for him to wake up, why they had left him alone in this room without an explanation.

As this thought crossed his mind, he heard footsteps in the hallway outside of his door. He quickly shut his eyes and pretended to be asleep as the door opened, and the light of the bright corridor fell upon his face. The footsteps drew closer to his bed, and he could feel the eyes of the intruder looking down at him.

"You cannot hide," said a female voice.

Sherlock sat up and smiled at the lady beside his bed. The dark haired woman from the hidden room was now crouched at his bedside, silently looking down at him. There was something sinister in her expression, and the excitement he felt at her arrival disappeared. He shrunk away from her, gripping the blankets tightly in his small hands. As she leaned closer to him the scent of rotten eggs became over-powering, but he tried not to let his disgust register on his face.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I am free now."

"Oh," he replied. "You're going to leave?"

The cool smile returned to her beautiful face, her light eyes unblinking as she stared into his face. The kindness he had seen in the hidden room was absent, replaced by an unfeeling expression that barely masked the violent rage within. She rose, towering over where he stood huddled on top of the bed, and as he was about to call out, her light eyes disappeared. He stared into them, terrified, as she gazed upon him through eyes of pure black.


End file.
